


I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth

by blackkat



Series: Kit Fisto drabbles [5]
Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Character Death Fix, Flirting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 10:48:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29452590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: The lost Mand’alor is sitting alone in the back of the cantina.
Relationships: Jaster Mereel/Kit Fisto
Series: Kit Fisto drabbles [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1941694
Comments: 25
Kudos: 535





	I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth

The lost Mand’alor is sitting alone in the back of the cantina.

Three steps inside the room, Kit freezes, almost losing his grip on the satchel he’s carrying. His shock echoes, rebounds, and he very nearly takes a step back, very nearly reaches for his lightsaber or at the very least the Force, not willing to believe his eyes.

But the image doesn’t change. Jaster Mereel is sitting at a small table, a meal in front of him, and he’s not dressed in the black and red armor that he sported in every holo Kit has ever seen of him. Workman’s clothes, instead, rough and patched but serviceable, and he looks _weary_ , bone-deep in a way Kit sympathizes with all too well.

Kit is here for Boba, chasing rumors that Mace passed on, hoping to find the boy before he can fall in with some of the more unsavory figures Jango was known to associate with, but—nothing could have prepared him for this. It _is_ Jaster; Kit was a young Knight in the aftermath of Korda IV, and he remembers the holos, the reports, the concern in the Temple over what would become of the Mandalorian Civil War in the fallout. Jaster was gone, taken somewhere by the Death Watch, the Jedi had assumed. But—

He doesn’t look much like a captive right now, Kit thinks. Or like the Mand’alor, frankly.

Slipping sideways out of the entrance, Kit skirts the room, not entirely sure what he intends to do but certainly not about to leave without doing _something_. The bartender is a Mon Calamari, and they glance up as Kit approaches, mild surprise washing through the air around them.

“A little dry for you, isn't it?” they ask.

Kit laughs. “I could say the same,” he returns, and they snort, setting down a glass. Kit takes it gladly; the moon _is_ dry, the air thin, and he’s generally unbothered by such things, but it’s felt a little like suffocating all day. The water helps, and he drains the glass and passes it back, then says, “I'm looking for a Human boy. About twelve, alone, likely around all the wrong sorts of people.”

The Mon Calamari huffs, shaking their head. “I keep those sort out of here,” they say firmly. “Try the other side of town.”

Kit inclines his head, not entirely surprised. The pull of the Force that led him to this cantina was likely due entirely to Jaster, not Boba. “Thank you.” He pauses, deliberate, and then gives them his most charming smile. “The Human in the back—may I ask what he’s drinking?”

Humor flickers, and the Mon Calamari pulls another glass from behind the bar. “Two?” they ask, and Kit reaches for a credit chip.

“Please,” he agrees, and the Mon Calamari fills both glasses with something pale gold and sweet-smelling, then passes them over.

“Be kind to him,” they warn, soft.

Kit considers them for a longer moment, then bows his head. “You have my word,” he says, and the Mon Calamari huffs and waves him off. Chuckling, Kit takes both glasses and steps back, shifting his satchel enough to keep it from bumping any of the occupied tables as he makes his way across the room. No one gives him so much as a second glance, which Kit is glad for; undercover work is always a relief, that way. There are too many places that have never seen a Jedi, and making himself a curiosity gets old quickly.

Jaster doesn’t look up as Kit approaches. There's a daze of near-exhaustion about him, a weariness that blunts everything, and Kit frowns a little, unsettled. None of the pride and sharpness he remembers from reports and holos, not in this man, but—

There's something. Something _bright_ , like a beacon, drawing Kit right to him through the Force. A sense of something that needs to be done hangs heavy across it, and fit would listen regardless, but this is a stronger pull than he’s felt in a very, very long while.

“Pardon me, my friend,” he says, and there's a jerk, an aborted reach for a blaster as Jaster looks up, exhaustion shoved down as dark eyes narrow warily. He almost rises, but Kit raises the glasses before he can and says, “I hope you don’t mind me sharing your table. I'm glad to pay for my use with another drink.”

Jaster looks from Kit to the drinks, then sinks back down, inclining his head. “It’s hard to refuse an offer like that,” he says, and glances at his half-finished meal. “I have…”

Deftly, Kit sets one of the glasses in front of him, then takes the unoccupied seat across the table. “No need, my friend,” he soothes, smiling. “Nautolans are sturdy, but several of the crops grown here don’t agree with my species, I'm afraid. It’s protein rations for me for the foreseeable future.”

The curve of Jaster's mouth is rueful. “A fate worse than death,” he says, and lifts the glass to Kit, taking a slow sip. Kit copies him, and the taste does little for him, too sharp in odd ways, but Jaster closes his eyes like he’s savoring it, and Kit can feel the low hum of his simple sort of pleasure. After a long moment, Jaster opens his eyes again, and his smile comes a little more easily when he says, “Your accent—the southern quarter of Glee Anselm?”

“Originally,” Kit allows easily. “Though I left when I was very young. My name is Kit.”

There's a long pause as Jaster looks back down at his food. “I'm afraid I don’t have a name to offer you in return,” he says after a moment.

Something curls across Kit's senses, slow and certain. “That’s quite all right, my friend,” he says, and cocks his head, tugging at one of the leather wraps around his tentacles. There's an edge of wariness that says to play along, to ignore the opening, but—the whisper of the Force and Jaster's exhaustion tangle together in Kit's chest, urging him on. “You work in the port, yes?”

Jaster huffs, taking another sip of his drink. “Hired muscle,” he agrees dryly. “Very few captains are willing to take a passenger who has neither credits nor papers, so leaving is currently out of the question.”

Kit weighs that, then hums, setting his glass down. “I believe I could help you retrieve your papers,” he offers. “And while I have a task to complete here before I can depart, I also have a ship that will be all the better for your presence aboard.”

Jaster freezes, hand going white-knuckled around the glass for an instant before he very deliberately sets it aside. Tension sings through him, like a drawn bowstring, and he stares at Kit for an endless moment, something dangerous rising behind his eyes like a vast creature surfacing in a calm ocean. Whatever happened to cause him to lose his memory, Kit thinks, it hasn’t destroyed his skill.

“You know me,” Jaster says at last, and the words are rough. “You—recognize me. You're not offering new papers, you know how to get _mine_.”

“I do,” Kit confirms, keeping his voice even as a tide of mingled hope and disbelief surges through Jaster.

Jaster sinks back in his chair, pressing a hand over his face. “I thought—” he starts, and then stops short. The twist of pheromones around him gives the rest of the sentence away, though, and Kit chuckles.

“Had I not recognized you, I would most certainly have offered,” he says, grinning at Jaster. “You are a handsome man. But sleeping with you when I know you and you do not even know yourself would be wrong.”

Something in Jaster's expression softens at that. “An honorable traveler,” he says. “I'm fortunate that it was you who recognized me, then.” He pauses, swallows, and then looks up, meeting Kit's eyes. “My name?”

“Jaster,” Kit says without hesitation. “Jaster Mereel, born on Concordia in the Mandalorian system.”

Jaster swallows, then ducks his head, pressing his hands over his face. “It feels as if I knew that all along,” he says, half-muffled. “Like it was there out of sight, but I couldn’t reach it.”

Kit can't help but reach out, curling his fingers around Jaster's wrist where his shirtsleeves are rolled up. “Memory loss is a terrible thing,” he says quietly. “I would help you find who did this, Jaster. If you would have my assistance.”

Jaster turns his hand, catches Kit's fingers. “How could I refuse?” he asks roughly, and draws Kit's hand up, kissing his knuckles. “Thank you.”

Kit closes his eyes against the shiver that wants to wash through him. “Anything you require,” he says, and through the press of skin, through the wash of heat that curls through the air, he can feel Jaster's reaction to those words. Has to draw himself back, has to reach for control, and—the thought of his mission is a good way to regain that control. “The Force moves in strange ways, my friend. I am here searching for your grandson.”

Jaster freezes, fingers going tight around Kit's. “My _grandson,_ ” he repeats, and—that note is hope and joy and something sharply lonely that’s cracking down the middle. “I have a _grandson_?”

Kit smiles, gripping Jaster's hand tightly. “It is getting late. Come back to my ship and sleep,” he says. “Tomorrow we can look for Boba. He would do well to have you in his life, Jaster.”

Jaster's breath shakes, and he bows his head, pressing Kit's curled fingers to his forehead. “Thank you,” he says roughly. “Thank you, Kit.”

“No, my friend,” Kit says softly. “Thank _you_. Finding you is a joy I had not thought I could feel after all these years of war.”


End file.
